


Bubbles

by glorious_spoon



Series: Tumblr/Twitter Prompt Fic [24]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Bedside Vigils, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: After everything, Peter sits next to Gamora's bedside and waits for her to wake up.





	Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt from zivitz, who asked for _Peter/Gamora; things you said that I wasn't meant to hear; things you said when I was sick_

His voice has been rising and falling at the edges of her awareness for what seems like hours before the sound of it begins to resolve into comprehensible words. Song lyrics, most of them, which is to be expected. Terran songs, the ones from the storage devices gifted to him by his mother and by Yondu; a few filthy Xandarian verses that he must have picked up at the last smuggler bar they crashed through; an eerie consonant-less lament in a language that she doesn’t recognize and his translator doesn’t pick up. It feels like a lullabye, although it isn’t, not really; it’s mostly that Peter has never been able to tolerate silence for any length of time.

She doesn’t mind; she never has. She is no expert on music, but Peter’s voice is pleasant, soothing and low. Its constant refrain is enough to tell her that she is not alone.

She has spent so much of her life alone.

The others have drifted in and out. Other voices, joining the chorus briefly: Rocket, Drax, Groot, even Nebula. The Asgardian refugee, the strange Terrans whose names she cannot recall, if she ever knew them. There are prickles of pain sometimes, as someone adjusts one or another of her implants. Likely Nebula. She’s the only one left who understands them well enough, although Rocket could probably manage in a pinch. The only one other than Gamora, or Thanos--

The name brings with it a spinning sensation, like freefall: a thick blanketing horror. She slips deeper into the darkness to escape it, and for a time she knows no more.

When she surfaces again, Peter isn’t singing. He’s talking. It still has a sing-song cadence, the vocal quality of a body at the end of a long race, a hoarse exhausted edge. She wonders, vaguely, how long it’s been since he’s slept. How long he’s been sitting here with her, wherever ‘here’ is.

“...anyway, it was too good to pass up,” he’s saying, words slurry and soft. “Figured Yondu took the job on contract, and I was the only one who could fit up through the vents, goddamn but I was a skinny kid back then. Got real sick after that one, it wasn’t the first time, but…” he trails off, coughs. There’s the metallic clink as he picks something up, drinks from it, sets it back down, and clears his throat. “Anyway, I was--anyway--” his voice breaks, suddenly, fractures. There’s the shift of a body rocking forward, a heavy breath like a sob, warm fingers resting for an instant on her bare wrist, and then he says, “This is bullshit, I don’t care what Rocket says. This is such bullshit. Please wake up. Please.”

She wants to respond, but but it’s as though there are weights attached to her lips. Every inch of her feels heavy and sore.

She has no memory of how she came to be here, she realizes vaguely. She remembers Peter’s devastated face like the afterimage of an explosion, his wet eyes and rasping breaths, and then a too-strong, too-large hand digging into her arm, dragging her across a rough surface like she was nothing more than a broken toy--

_\--bubbles, slipping through her fingers to rise into the blackness above her--_

Peter’s fingers press harder suddenly, almost painful, and she realizes that he’s searching for her pulse. The vein sits slightly differently in her arm than in a Terran’s, but he seems to have forgotten that in his exhaustion. His warm fingers dig in until it’s almost painful, and he makes a ragged, awful sound. “Oh, god, no, please--”

It feels like moving through lead, but she finally manages to make her fingers curl, twist her hand until they’re just brushing his. He twitches, fingers falling away entirely for a moment, then grabs her hand in both of his.

“You’re awake? Gamora?”

She licks lips that feel like sandpaper, then manages to rasp, “Peter.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes, and then his face is pressed against her hair, his warm lips on her forehead, the dampness of tears. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Gamora, I’m sorry.”

She wants to lift her hand to touch his face, but she still feels impossibly weak; it takes almost every bit of energy she can muster to draw another breath, to murmur, “What happened?”

Peter’s breath moves the damp hair on her forehead; she can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a sob. “It’s a really fucking long story. What do you remember?”

Gamora finally peels her dry, aching eyes open. The room is in shadow, but Peter’s face is close enough that she can see his bruised eyelids and bloodshot eyes, his rough jaw and greasy hair, all the evidence of profound exhaustion. She can remember those rough fingers. She can remember free-fall, the towering silhouette of her adoptive father slipping away into the black, the shock of impact--

Peter’s face, his wet eyes, his hand steady on the blaster pointed at her heart. Bubbles rising up into darkness. She lets her eyes slip shut, curling her fingers tighter around his. “I remember you.”


End file.
